


Night Terrors

by CallYouByYourName



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Asra is kind of awful in this one and I'm sorry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I still love Asra okay, M/M, Mean Asra, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-11-12 07:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18006266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallYouByYourName/pseuds/CallYouByYourName
Summary: “...These disruptions, these ‘night terrors’ as you call them, they must stop. Do you know that you cry out in your sleep? You’ve woken me twice now with your mewlings, and I simply will not tolerate this behavior any longer."It had seemed like a thoroughly practical idea, for Count Lucio to have his best physician moved into an adjoining room in order to be on call at all times. Unfortunately, this particular plague-doctor suffers from such terrible nightmares that he cries out in his sleep - and wakes up the Count. And, well, that's a problem.(Soft Julian x Lucio fic, eventual smut, Mean Asra, and Lucio Saves Julian uwu soft)





	1. Do you know that you cry out in your sleep?

**Author's Note:**

> My beta for the first four chapters was the lovely and talented EskerDune! <3

“...These disruptions, these ‘night terrors’ as you call them, they must stop,” Count Lucio tells his doctor. “Do you know that you cry out in your sleep? You’ve woken me twice now with your mewlings, and I simply will not tolerate this behavior any longer.” 

Although his instructions couldn’t be more clear, Dr. Devorak can only stare in response, as if bewildered by this simplest of requests. At the same time, he grows quite pink in the cheeks.

“...Oh,” he says, finally. “I must have, erm… kept you awake then? Terribly sorry, Count Lucio, a thousand apologies, I’ll be certain to close my door from now on so as to avoid dis--”

“You will do no such thing!” Lucio snaps. “Has the lack of sleep rendered you half-witted? The entire purpose of keeping a physician quartered in the adjoining rooms is that you should be available to provide me with medical care at all times, Doctor! How will you hear me call for you from behind a closed door? If I should suffer a relapse in the night, what good will you be if you are deaf to my distress? Is the magician teaching you his knack for reading thoughts?” 

The doctor nods slowly, his blush only worsening for some incomprehensible reason, eyes downcast. “Ah, of course, of course, you couldn’t be more correct. How, uh, foolish of me. It’s just that I’m a little unsure that I know how to keep from waking you - again, I’m so sorry - while the doors remain open?” He glances up, worried, and all but flinches as he encounters Count Lucio’s glare.

“As I said,” Lucio intones slowly, as if addressing a particularly stupid child, “Stop having them. Is that clear?”

Dr. Devorak looks as though he wants to say something more; his mouth works, his gaze darts around the room. But in the end he simply nods in defeat. “Y-yes, Count Lucio,” he agrees with a long suffering sigh. Always so dramatic.

Lucio nods sharp and satisfied. “Good. Now, these symptoms I’ve been having…”


	2. Breakfast

“Lucio! What a rare treat to see you here among the living my darling, and so early in the day!” Countess Nadia wears her beauty like a mask, her smile bright and delighted...but Count Lucio senses her surprise at seeing him as it dances just under the surface.

It’s true that he’s a rare sight in the palace these days - when he does leave his chambers he roams the halls at night like a ghost. But this morning had found him in a singular state, feeling an uncommon vitality.

Disrupted sleep notwithstanding, Lucio is pleasantly delighted to find that he’s feeling well enough to breakfast with Nadia. He’s dismayed, however, to find that she’s not alone. Already the Countess’ coterie of pet eccentrics clusters around her, clumped together at the far end of the table like a throng of devotees. Among the pandering courtiers he recognizes a few faces: the short hungry one, the angry-red one with the lovely gauntlets and the quick temper… but none that he cares to greet. He does note that the magician Asra sits at her right hand like well-kept pet, with Dr. Devorak across the table from him. He feels a moue of distaste curl his mouth, but does his best to hide it.

Lucio seats himself a suitable distance from Nadia and her menagerie. He spears a piece of broiled meat with his good hand, delicately wielding a knife in the other. “Disappointed, my dear? Please don’t be, I’m sure that one day I’ll be out of your hair for good.” He grins to show that he’s joking, but on his face it feels like a corpse’s leer. It must look like one too, if his wife's shudder is any indication.

“Lucio, please! You mustn’t say such things, it’s upsetting. And at the breakfast table, no less. You know that my dearest wish is for your recovery - all of Vesuvia mourns your absence and waits for you to return to her. Why, the best doctors and mages in the realm are devoted to your cure!”

Lucio nods with as much grace as he is able. “Of course, my dear. Forgive me, my manners must have become rusty from so little use during my convalescence.” He puts the food to his lips, finding it strangely tasteless.

One of the courtiers, the little one with one staring blind eye, chirps, “Oh, how we all look forward to the delicious day when you can rejoin us at court! Is it true, Count Lucio, that you now have your personal doctor on call both day and night? The rumor in the palace is that you’ve had your man moved to the drafty old servant’s rooms next to your own! If it is so, surely this will make your recovery all the quicker! I trust he is feeding you well?

“If not, then we hang him!” cries another, smashing a gauntlet-clad fist on the table, so that the dishes jump. 

“Now let’s not be hasty--” Dr. Devorak interjects, looking a bit green.

“Vulgora, please,” Countess Nadia scolds, and the table falls quiet.

Count Lucio grimaces at his breakfast, and addresses the smallest courtier that spoke first, whose name he doesn’t know, or care to know. “What you’ve heard is correct. I thought it best to have our Dr. Devorak," he indicates him with a gesture “near to hand in case any problems should arise during the night. As you can see, though, I don’t leash him to my side twenty-four hours a day. It’s enough that he should be available to administer the ghastly stuff I take at night, and to tend to me when my sleep is disturbed.”

From the courtiers there’s a bootlicking chorus of agreement at the wisdom of this, but he roundly ignores it in favor of cutting his food into smaller and smaller pieces, eating with mechanical determination. He chooses not to notice the color that leaps from Devorak's neck to the tips of his ears; is there anything that will not make the man blush? Likewise, Lucio chooses not to notice the quick, yearning glances the doctor throws at the magician since his own entrance.

The magician’s attention however, is on Count Lucio himself. His dandelion-fluff eyebrows shoot up in surprise and understanding. "Is your sleep often troubled, my lord?" 

Although he’s cognizant of the insinuation - that perhaps Count Lucio doesn't deserve the sleep of an innocent man - Lucio schools his face to politeness and feigned boredom. The magician Asra is currently Nadi's favorite lapdog, a pretty bauble to show the court. But lapdog or no, there’s something dangerous about this one. Lucio is always careful around him. He hates him for that, along with a multitude of other sins. 

"Unfortunately I am often visited by fevers or pains in the night,” he says. “However, since the installation of Dr. Devorak,” he lies easily, “I’ve slept uncommonly well. He has a calming presence. Perhaps having a doctor on call is what I've been needing all this time." Asra’s violet eyes are unreadable, but Lucio hears, more than sees, Dr. Devorak splutter into his cup.

"That’s good news indeed, Count Lucio," says Asra, who does not sound as though he finds the news to be good or even particularly interesting, "And how fortunate you are to have our dear doctor at your beck and call in your time of need. He's a wonder… aren’t you, Ilya?” he asks fondly, turning his gentle expression on the doctor, “But you should have told me Count Lucio had sequestered you,” he all but purrs across the table, “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” 

The rest of Nadia’s entourage develops a sudden interest in their plates, while the Countess herself rolls her eyes indulgently. The doctor’s expression is impossible to read with any subtlety from where Lucio sits, so the flash of hurt he thinks he sees is probably just his imagination. Since almost at once he offers the cocky little mage his own trademark smirk, teasing him back, “Me? Avoid you? I wouldn’t dream of it. But Asra, if you really missed me that much, all you needed to do was say so! I’m extremely charming company, after all, you needn’t feel embarrassed.” 

“Oh, but that’s not it, Ilya,” Asra counters, clearly enjoying himself, “While you are definitely a rare companion, the truth is that I’ve contracted a mysterious malady during my travels… I too find myself in need of a doctor.”

The subtle delivery of the last line has the probably-intentional effect of making the doctor choke on his mouthful of pomegranate juice (for the second time), leaving him coughing and beet-red. The best he can manage is, “Well, if I-- ahem. If I can be of any service, then by all means-- consider me at your disposal," while dabbing at flecks of red on his white blouse, and not looking anybody in the face.

By now the magician is out of his chair and standing by his side. “I hope you can,” he offers, expression all innocence. “Will you walk with me? I’ll tell you all about my symptoms, and perhaps together we can diagnose the cause.” He turns to Nadia. “If you will excuse us, Countess?” 

“I see no reason not to,” she responds with a wink, “It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”

“I, ah,” stammers the doctor, intelligently. “Certainly. That is, of course, if I’m not, erm, needed, in my professional capacity, that is, m-my lord?” Devorak asks, looking to Lucio. 

There’s a plea in his words that Lucio can’t quite decipher; Certainly he doesn’t want to be saved from the advances of the magician, after he’s been making doe’s eyes at him throughout the meal? These commoners are really so peculiar, Lucio thinks, and dismisses them with one wave of his golden hand. “Be at your post by this evening,” he advises, not bothering to watch them leave. 

By sheer coincidence, Lucio also leaves the table not long after they depart: he seems to have lost his appetite.


	3. Something's wrong.

When the doctor returns to his temporary quarters in the rooms adjoining Lucio’s, Lucio can’t help but notice that he looks a good deal worse than he did this morning. But unless he’s forgotten as much about human nature as he apparently has about table manners, this is neither the look of satiated confidence that follows a tryst, nor the lovesick gaze of one who has just endured the social gauntlet of flirting and coquetterie-- those, at least, would be understandable. But the doctor seems drained, rather than invigorated. He’s paler than usual, although two spots of color burn high in his cheeks. There’s a new weariness in the lines of his eyes that suggests sorrow, although what he has to sorrow about, Lucio has no reason to know. He has no reason to know… and yet he finds that he does know, much to his irritation. What a trifling thing to be concerned with, he chastises himself. 

While the doctor prepares the evening’s disgusting tinctures and foul-smelling tonics, Lucio studies him from his nest of pillows. The doctor's hands are long and graceful, and he handles his many bottles and powders with the practiced skill of an artisan at his craft, or a musician manipulating his instrument. There’s something undeniably artful in the way he tends to his measurements: so focused and precise. As always, Lucio enjoys watching him do it. Only... something’s wrong. 

Tonight there's a distance in his eyes, a pinched look to his expressive mouth, a lack of attention to his task. And now Lucio finds himself in the unpleasant position of being troubled, yet again, by this thing that shouldn’t concern him, by the misery of someone who isn’t his to protect. Abruptly, he asks “Why were you hoping I’d tell you not to go with the magician?” and Dr. Devorak startles so badly that he drops a flask. It shatters.

Lucio conceals his amusement - poorly - by coughing into his closed fist. There’s a sort of fun in it though, isn't there? A thrill that still moves in his hunter’s heart when the quarry is as easily provoked as this one is. But of course, Lucio doesn’t hunt, not anymore. Not for the wild beasts that would grace his table, and not for the sweetly yielding creatures who once graced his bed. Those days are gone, he hardly ever even thinks about them now. Except--

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord,” the doctor stammers, as he crouches to gather the broken glass.

But Lucio isn't that easily put off. He leans over the bed on one lazy elbow, watching. “I don’t have much interest in lies and evasions, Doctor,” he says, mildly. “When one has as little time left as I do, there's no point in wasting it. This morning, in the dining room, you asked for my permission to leave with the magician, but you wanted me to deny you. Why?"

Devorak looks up, eyes wide, his face a mask of hurt. He's doubtless appalled at this sudden departure from decorum, and it is perhaps this which surprises him into giving an honest answer: “Because I wanted to go with him, even though I knew it would end… as it did. Which is to say, badly for me. No surprise there, eh?” His wry smile has a bitter edge.

He finishes his task without elaborating, carries his palmful of broken glass to the trash, and comes back dusting his hands off on his trousers. “I still need to check your blood pressure before we administer the sleeping agent, my lord. If you please?” He holds out his hand, and Lucio surrenders his forearm without further comment.

It seems as though their conversation is over, as the doctor is focused on the clock now, lips moving as he counts the beats of Lucio’s heart against it. Lucio’s gaze falls again to the doctor’s hands, one holding Lucio’s arm steady, the other with two slender fingers pressed to his pulse. As he watches, a thin trail of red trickles down the palm to stain Lucio’s immaculate coverlet, and he frowns. 

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

The doctor blanches, but recovers quickly. “What? Oh, the flask! I must have cut myself while I was cleaning up, that's all." He moves to withdraw his hand, leaving a smear of vivid red on Lucio’s forearm, but he’s not quick enough - Lucio’s has a hunter’s reflexes even now, and his golden arm snakes out to capture the doctor’s wrist in a grip like a vise. Devorak positively squirms in his metal grip, trying to pull free. But it’s no use, and Lucio turns his hand over to examine the palm.

“Please, Sir, I just need to--”

“Shut up,” says Lucio, without malice, and (for once) the doctor does. On his palm Lucio finds a long, clean slash, thin but deep. It’s recent, and still looks tender. It must have stopped bleeding at some recent point, but has just begun again. The cut is far too precise to be the work of a shard of glass; unless the doctor did this himself, then someone has been cutting him. Lucio won’t insult either of them by asking who it was. 

Lucio lifts his gaze to the doctor’s worried face. He says, “Why?”

Devorak swallows hard, hesitates. Lucio wonders if he’s deciding to lie. That’s a mistake, always: lies should be told without hesitation. In a small voice, the doctor says, “It’s for his magic. Some of the spells, they want blood.”

“Why not use his own, then?”

“Obviously I have exceptional blood. Why should he settle for mere magician merlot when he can have this rare plague-doctor pinot gris, eh?” the doctor tries on a wry smirk, although it doesn’t fit very well. 

Lucio doesn’t play to his gambit, instead waiting on his answer. Devorak’s gaze drops, and the fingertips of his free hand wander the coverlet’s braided edge. “He doesn’t tell me why. Only that it will help him, that for some things it’s better if it’s not always him, not always the same.” His pauses, his shame bright and naked on his face. “It’s my fault, anyway. I did ask him to find a use for me, and now he has. Found a use, I mean.” 

Lucio’s confusion only deepens. A question forms in his throat - What’s your real usefulness to him? Is it true that your essence improves his magic tricks, or does he just like that he can hurt you? Or is it both? - but he keeps it behind his teeth.

Leaning over with one elbow on the edge of Lucio’s bed, Devorak seems to have recovered, for he flashes his show-stopping grin. “So there you are,” he offers, his voice becoming light and teasing. “You know all my dark secrets, and now here we are holding hands. Should I expect flowers the next time we meet?”

Is Devorak flirting with him? Lucio finds himself uncomfortably aware of just how close he is, and of the mischief dancing in his eyes. Unbidden, he feels an answering smile twitching at the corners of his own mouth. “Maybe, if we meet at a funeral,” he agrees. 

Devorak gives a startled bark of laughter, and before he can recover from it, Lucio lowers his mouth to the injury, pressing his lips softly to the broken skin. Although his grip is iron, the kiss is feather-light, hardly there at all. He lets go.

“The mothers of my clan did so when we were very small ” he explains to the astonished doctor, “to heal the hurts that we gave one another during our play. May your wounds heal well, and may the pain bring you wisdom.”

Devorak cradles his wounded hand in the one that’s still whole, looking for all the world as though Lucio has just performed some arcane ritual of healing. His expression is one of mild incredulity. Looking up, he murmurs, “And did the blessing come along with the kiss?” 

Lucio makes a dismissive gesture, “That or something like it. It’s been a long time since anyone kissed my bloodied elbows and scraped knees.” 

Devorak nods slowly, as if deep in thought. “Indeed, my lord. I must confess that it’s hard to imagine you were once small enough to allow such a thing. It must be because you are so magnificent and imposing now, hm?” 

For a moment, Lucio feels lightheaded, heat rising to his face. Could it be that his fever is returning, when he has been so well? He clears his throat, embarrassed. “Did you think I never had a mother, Devorak? Or perhaps you believe the rumors that I was hatched from a lizard's egg.”

At once the doctor affects a comical look of shock, pressing a hand to his chest. “Heavens, no! Why, I heard that you were hatched from the egg of a purple swan, in a pink pool, on the new moon.” He makes a grand gesture with the other hand, as if to encompass the night sky. “Or… was it a golden chariot at dawn? I disremember which.” 

Such insolence! By rights, Lucio should have him disciplined for the sheer temerity of him, or at least say the things that will make him afraid to do it again. But Devorak grins at him so cheekily that Lucio quite forgets to reprimand him. He grumbles, “Are you going to measure my blood pressure, Dr. Devorak, or should I dismiss you so that you can pursue your work in the theatre?”

Devorak drops his head, dolefully. “You wound me, my lord,” he says in a pitiful voice. He looks up at Lucio through his lashes, and for the space of a breath or two, Lucio’s heart beats much too rapidly. He’s definitely coming down with fever again.

“At once, Doctor!” Lucio barks, and Devorak scurries to do as he’s told. 

This time, he's able to take his blood pressure (which is slightly elevated) with little fanfare. At one point Lucio thinks he can feel the doctor’s hands trembling, but it’s probably his imagination.


	4. Wake Up, You're just Dreaming

Lucio doesn’t sleep well that night, either. Maybe the sleeping dram the doctor gives him wasn’t as precise as usual, or maybe it’s efficacy is wearing off, or maybe it has never really worked at all. In any case, he’s lying awake, his thoughts hot and restless, when he hears it: the doctor's having nightmares. Again. Despite having been told in no uncertain terms to stop his foolery. 

It starts as a series of low moans that seep from the doctor's room, as of a man fighting something in his sleep.That much might be tolerable, but soon the noises escalate to yelps of fear and ragged groans, words muttered in a language he doesn’t know. When the performance peaks with outright shouting, the doctor’s voice crying out “No, please don't! I’m sorry!” as he begs some unseen thing for mercy in the loudest voice possible, Lucio rises from his sickbed with a sigh of resignation. He dons his robe and walks barefoot into the doctor's room.

Lamps are still burning low in both rooms, enough to see by but little else. Count Lucio makes his way to the doctor's bed, which while undoubtedly more lavish than what he's used to, is still a great deal smaller and less well-appointed than Lucio's own. In it, Devorak thrashes like a man dreaming of drowning. As Lucio approaches, he gasps, “Don't... !”, once again, and twists his contorted face away from Lucio as if sensing his presence. Lucio wonders, not for the first time, what it is he really sees in his dreams. 

Leaning over him, he pushes the doctor’s tangled mess of curls back from his forehead, only to find it clammy with sweat. Scowling, Lucio trails his fingers down the doctor's cheek and across his jaw, caressing him in secret. Then he seizes his wrists, one in each hand, to ensure he won’t be struck by a flailing arm, or perhaps mistaken for a monster from the dream. “Doctor Devorark? Doctor Devorak!” he leans in, jostling him a little. “Doctor, wake up!” 

The doctor stills under his hands, and for a moment Lucio thinks this will be enough. But then his eyes drift open, slowly, until they are staring helpless and bewildered into his own. His eyes are the color of storm-clouds, grey and blue and perfect. The man himself sprawls before him , still disoriented: half-awake, half-dressed and tousled with sleep, he's almost breathtakingly lovely. Fleetingly, Lucio considers that until this moment he’s never paid any attention to the stark beauty of the man in front of him - which is strange, given how much time they’ve spent together. 

Count Lucio releases him, and the doctor scrambles to sit up in bed. He scrubs a hand through his hair, chafes at his wrists where Lucio must have held them too tightly. “Count Lucio? Is something the matter? Do you need medicine?”

“I would need far less of it if I were allowed to sleep through the night, Doctor.” 

Understanding dawns in Devorak’s expression, then dismay. “Oh hell’s leeches… I woke you up again, didn’t I? Khrenoten, I’m so sorry, Count Lucio! It won’t happen again, I swear it… let me make you a sleeping remedy, a stronger one this time. ” He begins to rise but Lucio halts him, holding up one imperios hand.

“You’ll stay exactly where you are, Doctor, until I’ve dealt with you.”

For some reason, this seems to send him into a panic: “W-what? No, please! I’ll make it up to you, I’ll stay awake every night from now on, I don’t really need sleep anyway! Whatever you’re about to do-- Don’t! Ya proshu tebya! Lucio, please!”

The sound of his name in the doctor’s mouth without the honorific is unfamiliar but not unwelcome. In any case Lucio is too tired to correct him. Instead, he merely climbs into bed beside him, which makes Devorak’s eyes widen to almost comic proportions, and his eyebrows climb into his hairline. He seems afraid to say anything else, though. 

“I’ve already told you once," Lucio says gravely, "that these disruptions cannot be allowed to continue. I gave you a chance to stop on your own, didn’t I?”

The doctor nods, mute.

“...but you chose not to, so I’m forced to deal with the problem myself. It’s extremely unprofessional of you, but--” he stifles a yawn, “I don’t think firing you at this point would be worth the effort of replacing you. Turn your back to me and lie down.”

“I-I’m sorry - do what, now?” his Doctor asks, tremulous.

Lucio gestures, golden claws clicking with impatience. "Have your nightmares damaged your hearing? Turn away from me and lie on your side. And do try to control your prattling, it’s annoying.” 

With a great show of trepidation, the doctor does as he’s been told, clearly terrified of whatever he’s about to endure. Lucio pulls the blankets back up around them and eases forward until the front of his body is pressed flush against the doctor's back, warming them both, and slides a golden arm around his waist. Devorak gives a start when Lucio touches him, gasping.

"I’m not going to hurt you," Lucio scolds, his voice low because he's so near the shell of his ear, "...so there's really no need to be so dramatic. And I’m not going to ravish you either, if that’s what you’re worried about. But how should I ever hope to sleep when you create such a racket, hmm? Night after night, the same thing..." He strokes the fingers of his good hand through the doctor's unruly hair, caresses his scalp. “...and this, while admittedly unrefined, is the only thing I know that is proof against nightmares.”

“Forced, ah, hugging? Novel, erm, approach, m-my lord.” Devorak is too nervous to be funny, but he’s trying anyway. 

Count Lucio chuckles. “Maybe you’d call it that, but it’s really just human touch. For some reason, it seems to drive away the monsters that come out while we sleep. I have no idea why.” As he speaks, he takes his hand from Devorak’s hair and runs his fingers up the back of his neck, pressing down with his nails just enough so that he can feel their pressure, and the doctor makes a soft sound halfway between a whimper and a moan.

“Something wrong, Doctor?” 

“N-no, I just. Um. So where did you learn this, uh, technique? More m-motherly wisdom?” 

“Hardly. Melchior often has nightmares when there are fireworks, or during thunderstorms. He wakes me panting and crying, it’s the most pitiful sound - not nearly as loud as you are, of course - and this is the only thing that puts him back to sleep when he does.” Lucio feels his own eyelids growing heavy. 

There’s a brief pause. Then: “Wait. You’re -- this is what you do for your dogs?” 

“Only the one dog. Mercedes has a stronger constitution than her brother.” 

“Fine, one dog. But it still seems a little bit humil-- ohh, god, that’s nice...” His complaints give way to a soft groan as Lucio tightens his fist in Devorak’s hair, just enough to increase the sensation but not enough to hurt, then releases the pressure and massages the same spot with slow, deep strokes.

“Those beautiful animals are worth more than you’ve made in the last ten years ,” Lucio remonstrates, although he’s getting too sleepy now to bring any real heat to the statement. “And they receive nothing but the best. You should feel flattered.”

“Mmmhm, yes. Of course, I mean I am. Flattered, that is. Just maybe, well. Maybe don’t stop? I think it’s, ah… working?” 

Lucio obliges him for as long as he can, making a mess of his already-untidy curls as he runs fingers through his hair. Now and then he drags his claws lightly along Devorak’s upper shoulders, or massages his temple and his forehead, or caresses his face with light strokes. The doctor is silent except for his occasional soft sighs, leaning into the touch, eyelids fluttering shut. Lucio feels the tension ease from him, feels his breathing deepen and slow. He stops. 

"You’ll be alright now, I think. You're perfectly free to--" he yawns again, muffled against the back of the doctor’s head, and nearly earning himself a mouthful of red curls for his trouble, "... to dream as much as you like, but there is to be no talking, in your sleep or otherwise. Is that quite clear?” 

The doctor doesn’t answer, but Lucio feels him nod. 

“Say, ‘Yes, Lucio.’ “ 

“Yes Lucio.” Devorak’s voice is thick with sleep.

“Good, then we understand each other. Now if you think you can manage to behave in a civilized manner until the sun rises, I’ll conclude the ‘forced hugging’ and leave you to your rest.” There’s a long pause in which he thinks the doctor may have fallen asleep already, and he begins to withdraw.

“Please... don’t go,” Devorak’s voice is meek, a small sound in the dark. Lucio feels, in the distant way of his alchemical senses, the tight pressure of the doctor’s fingers on his cold metal arm, clinging to him.

...Oh. Well. How very unexpected. 

Lucio is taken aback, but only for a moment, before he says, “Just as you like, Doctor,” and tugs him closer, although there’s scarcely any distance left to breach. He holds him in a tight embrace until the grip on his arm relaxes, then rests his chin on his shoulder comfortably. While it's true he hadn't anticipated this, Lucio would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that it is a pleasant thing, the warm weight of the other man in his arms, his soft breathing in the almost-dark.

“Now,” he mutters, closing his eyes, “...try to sleep without waking the entire palace, hm? You’ve been more than enough trouble for one night.”


	5. Let me Show you Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Sorry for the wait - sometimes it's just that way. 
> 
> Beta'd as always by my dear writing friend EskerDune - check out their stuff, if you haven't already!

Julian wakes early, drowsily aware of being surrounded by an pleasant, unfamiliar warmth. He feels a rare sense of safety and comfort, a contentment that makes his limbs feel heavy and his thoughts soft. He drifts in it for a long time, savoring the novelty, not wanting to wake up and have it end. But eventually, unwillingly, he resurfaces. Slowly he remembers where he is, and who he’s with. His heart begins to race. 

He gets out of the bed as quietly as he can, untangling himself from the sleeping Count Lucio with a delicacy he ordinarily applies only to breaching locked windows, or evading the palace guards. Still, it’s not for nothing that he’s known as a slippery boy; in no time flat he’s dressed, his boots buckled, and then he’s gone.

* * *

Julian flees to the library - After flagging down a servant because he’s forgotten his keys again. The library is a lovely place when it’s empty, cool and tranquil, illuminated by natural light from the long windows. He finds it comforting to have all this knowledge gathered in one place. Even when his mind is in a tumult he can spend long, happy hours here.

“You’re up early, Ilya,”

But it’s unfortunate that it’s not empty now. The magician Asra reclines on a plush velvet lounge beneath a window, curled up like a cat with his bare feet tucked beneath him, some antiquated-looking tome in his hands, and several more stacked on the floor beside him. He smiles a greeting. “Planning to do some research?”

“Oh, hello Asra.” Julian’s eyes move across the stacks as he nods to him. He hasn’t, in fact come with any particular plan in mind. “Yes, I ah, just wanted to look a few things up. How are you?” He moves to the nearest row of books and begins to run his eyes over the titles in a purposeful way, just as if he knew what he were looking for.

“Ohh? Broadening your horizons, I see.” In his peripheral vision, he sees Asra unfold himself and glide towards him. 

“Yes, exactly. Wait… what?” 

“Your research,” says the magician, now at his shoulder. He reaches past Julian to pluck a slender green volume from the shelf in front of him, and turns the cover towards him: _Transformative Magic_. Looking past it, Julian scans the other titles in front of him, but reads them this time. _Magical Principals and Effects, Arcane Blood Rituals and sacrifice_ … His thoughts are a jumble of confusion for a moment before he realizes where he happens to be browsing, cursing himself inwardly. _Oh, hell…_

“I never took you for a man with an interest in the magical arts, Ilya.” Asra eyes him, curiously - but Julian can see the teasing sparkle in his eyes. “Have you decided to turn over a new leaf? I’d be glad to teach you a few tricks, all you have to do is ask.” 

Blushing, Julian snatches the book from his hands and shoves it back into the shelf at random. “You know I’m not,” he grumbles, “And I’ve seen enough of your tricks to last me a lifetime.” 

Asra’s irritating smile only spreads. “Are you sure? I haven’t even shown you the really good ones yet,” he murmurs, lowering his voice as he leans closer, reaching across him to pull the offending text from where Julian’s jammed it, then slots it into its proper place. As always, something about his proximity is tangible, like the faint electricity in the air before a storm. 

“Quite,” Julian mutters. He feels gooseflesh rise on his arms as some primitive sense warns him to back away from that enticing electrical crackle before it can bewitch him - but of course, he never does. 

“Mmhm, well, the offer stands, if you change your mind.” Asra crouches to peer at the lowest shelf, running a fingertip along the spines. Looking up at him, he wonders, “Why are you really here, Ilya? I know you didn’t come looking for me.”

“You don’t sound particularly wounded by that fact,” Julian observes. 

“I’m not. I am curious, though.” He selects two of the books, stands smoothly, and peers at Julian in that considering way that Julian hates, as if he’s looking through his eyes to the inside of his head. “Not looking for a book, not looking for me… or anyone else… ah!” 

“ ‘Ah’???” Julian mimics, “ ‘Ah’ ? You can’t just ‘ah’ at me and then go silent, acting as if you know everything ahead of time!”

Asra looks genuinely surprised. “I never know anything ahead of time.” he says. “Or almost never. Sometimes the cards tell me things, or Faust. But don’t blame me just because you’re easy to read.” 

Julian feels a familiar heaviness settling in his chest. “That’s fair,” he sighs. “Go on, then, tell me my fortune. Do the… you know. The woo thing.” He waggles his fingers in the air before his face, like a cheap street magician about to perform a card trick. 

“Your fortune? I don’t know it. But hang on…” Asra imitates his gesture, although with more flowing movements, then touches a hand to his temple, closing his eyes. “...Wait, the spirits are speaking to me! Wait… wait... “ He rests a light hand on Julian’s arm, as if to steady himself, swaying in a theatrical way. Julian stiffens, and Asra’s eyes snap open. “You’re running from something. What is it?” 

Julian tries not to look impressed, if only because he doesn’t want to validate Asra’s smug smile. “That’s… you’re just guessing.” 

“I’m right, though. Aren’t I?” 

Forcing himself to maintain a poker face, Julian says, “As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. I guess you can’t win them all, eh?” 

Asra looks unconvinced. “Enlighten me, then.” 

Julian runs a hand through his hair, which must look a mess. “Is it so wrong for a man to want a moment alone with his thoughts before the day begins? It’s touching that your first thought was that I’d be looking for you, but I can I assure I do have other things to think about. You know, what with curing the plague and saving Vesuvia and all?” He can’t do anything about the note of weariness that creeps into his voice as he names his ongoing failure.

“I stand corrected,” Asra concedes with a nod, although he doesn’t sound as though he means it. “Speaking of your work - or our work, really - I need your help again, if you can spare me a little of your time.” 

Julian’s smile is thin, as the heaviness in his chest drops into his stomach. “Don’t I always? Although I’m not sure how much blood I’ll have left, at the rate you’ve been going,” he adds, softly.

“Not blood, this time. But I do need it. And… you,” he adds, taking Julian’s arm. His touch is light, but so warm, even through Julian’s sleeve. Asra smiles expectantly as he looks up at Julian, who feels himself falling into the magician’s inscrutable violet eyes. 

He tries, weakly, to save himself: “Actually I was just, erm, on my way to breakfast,” he says, realizing as soon as he says it that he is indeed powerfully hungry. How long has it been since he last ate? “Please, join me!”

The magician shakes his head. “I can’t. But I do have something to show you, something much more important than breakfast. I think you’ll find this interesting. Walk with me?”

It isn’t really a question, and they both know it. Sighing, Julian nods. He waits for the Asra to put his shoes back on - really, who takes off his shoes in a library? - then the magician takes his arm again, and together they walk to the Gardens. 

* * *

The garden’s lush greens have begun to yellow as the autumn cold sets in, and the leaves overhead are a melancholy tapestry of red and gold. They only get as far as the fountain before Asra drops down into fading grass. Although the fountain is still flowing, its waters are growing colder. Soon enough it will have to be drained, standing silent until the cold season is past.

Ignoring the cold, Asra dips his fingers into the wide gazing pool that surrounds the fountain with a look of fondness, as if he’s greeting an old friend. As Julian watches him, standing awkwardly, he feels something drop from the tree, settling onto his shoulders with a heavy, sinuous weight - he yelps in surprise. Asra looks up, eyes wide… but when he sees his predicament, he only laughs. 

“It’s alright, Ilya. Faust, Ilya’s a friend! You know better than to scare him like that!” There’s a feathery hissing from somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder, almost like a serpentine laugh, and he can’t help but feel they’re sharing a joke at his expense. 

Asra’s familiar, an albino snake with pale purple markings slides down Julian’s left arm and drops lightly to the grass and onto Asra’s outstretched hand. She coils up his arm and he lifts her so that her face is close to his, wrinkling his nose as her flickers her tongue against his nose in greeting. Asra wiggles his tongue out too - which looks ridiculous. Julian rolls his eyes and looks away, and when he glances back again she’s just the tip of a tail disappearing under Asra’s colorful layers.

“She only does it because she likes you, you know,” Asra grins.

“Damned funny way of showing it.”

“Well, it’s not as if she’s going to write you a letter. Anyway we’re not here to visit Faust. Are you ready?”

“How can I know if I’m ready - ready for what? You haven’t told me what we’re doing here,” he protests,” He folds his arms across his chest, noting the chill in the air. 

“Come on Ilya, don’t be like that.” Asra reaches up to tug him by the hand, and Julian allows himself to be drawn down next to him. The magician keeps Julian’s long fingers for in his for just a moment, warming them, before he squeezes once, and lets go. “I meant what I said. I think I’m getting closer to the answer, and I can’t do it without you.”

“Me? I thought it didn’t matter who, erm, _donated._ The last time we were here, you said you just wanted to add deviance to the spell.”

“I said _divergence_ , Ilya. ...But you’re right. Before, I just wanted some diversity to make the spell stronger. But now… well, I think it _does_ have to be you. You in particular.” His violet eyes linger on Julian’s, worried. 

“Why? There’s nothing special about me.” 

Shaking his head, Asra looks as bewildered as Julian’s ever seen him. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just that we used so much of your blood for the magic, or maybe it was supposed to be you all along.” 

“ _What_ was me all along?”

Asra shakes his head, gaze dropping back down to the water. “It’s - there’s a lot to explain, and we don’t have a lot of time right now. I’ll tell you everything, I promise. But just for now.... May I show you something?” 

Julian nods, trepidation coiling in his guts. “Okay.” 

Asra scoots on his knees to the edge of the pool, beckoning so that Julian leans forward to follow him. He drags his fingers through its surface again, then lifts them out, dripping, presses a soft kiss to the water still gleaming there, then blows on his fingertips. Julian would swear there’s a responding ripple, just a tiny one, in the still surface of the water. 

“Did you just blow that fountain a _kiss?_ ”

Asra hushes him. “Just watch.” 

Julian follows his gaze, to the ghostly reflections of their faces in the water, framed on one side by the dying autumn leaves above. Nothing happens, and he drums his fingers against the fountain’s edge, feeling his stomach complaining, the the tips of his ears and nose growing cold. “Asra…” 

“Shh!” 

They watch for a moment more... and slowly, the reflection starts to shift. The washed out colors of the leaves deepen and then change, their reflections pale and then fade away, like clouds scattered before the wind. Gradually a new scene comes into view, growing sharper and more defined by degrees, as if from the depths of some body of water far too deep to be contained in the Palace fountain.

Now they gaze down on an endless shoreline beneath a shifting crimson sky. Cobalt waves lap the indigo sand, each foam cap shattering into a fragile handful of stars, which glimmer from the sand for long minutes before slowly winking out. It’s… beautiful. Julian’s seen it before, but only a few times, and only with Asra. 

_He belongs to that place_ , Julian thinks, not for the first time, _not this one._

When Asra looks at him again, he seems a little wistful, as if he were thinking the same thing. The capricious colors of that inconstant sky seem to be reflected in his eyes. Julian swallows, uneasy, and looks away. 

Softly, Asra says, “Do you remember it?”

“Do give me some credit, I’m not an utter imbecile.” 

Asra laughs. He pushes his hand through the water to break up the images, which dissipates like smoke. “Right, good. So I’m lucky,” he says softly, “because the Magician’s realm is easy to get to, even without a personal gate. It’s… friendly, that way. It’s always playing tricks, of course, but… well, it’s a place that’s willing to let you in, as long as you can find the door.” 

“Fantastic. Listen, I’m really happy for you. But I’m also starving, so--” 

Asra catches him by the coat-sleeve before he can make his escape. “Ilya! Give me your hand.” 

Obediently, Julian offers him his left, but Asra shakes his head. “Other one. Glove off, please.” 

With a grimace, Julian tugs the long leather gloves from his right hand, proffering it again. 

Asra turns the palm up toward him and traces the healing cut with his index finger. He runs a thumbnail along the pale edge, pressing down hard, and then harder enough for it to begin to sting, frowning when nothing happens. Julian sucks in air through his teeth. 

“Damn,” Asra mutters, “You heal so fast. We’ll have to make another cut...” 

Julian feels his heart racing, not with fear, and takes a moment to hate himself. “I, ah, thought you said you didn’t need blood this time?” 

“I don’t - it’s not for the spell, we just need it to see the gate. I didn’t think you’d heal this fast. I’m just going to prick your finger, ok? Trust me?” 

“Well, it’s never gotten me in trouble before,” he deadpans. Asra has enough grace to smile. 

The magician makes a quick motion the with fingers of his free hand, and suddenly he’s holding a small, wicked-looking knife. It’s only the size of Julian’s little finger, miniature handle edged with sapphires, but it looks sharp. Before Julian can finish admiring it, Asra grips his hand and makes a new cut in the tip of his index finger - short, but deep - and it stings more than expected. The knife spins between his fingers and is gone again.

“Ow! Hey!” 

“Hypocrite,” Asra smiles, thrusting their hands together into the pool. His eyes, which are their own fathomless violet again, meet Julian’s. “Now watch.” 

As Julian does, the single thread of blood from this newest wound blossoms into a serpentine ribbon underwater… but then, instead of dissolving, as it should, it spreads, growing and growing, until a thin veil of red permeates the clear pool. The color grows deeper and more complex, until Julian can see the suggestion of shapes moving in it, swirling red mists and long shadows. Mesmerized, he reaches for it with his other hand…

“No.” Asra grabs his wrist hard. Julian puts the offending hand back in his lap, chastised.

“What--what are we looking at?” 

Asra’s smile is eager, almost proud. “What do you think?”

Julian stares, bewildered. “It looks like the other one. It’s all…” He gestures. “...wavy, at the edges. But that’s not the Magician’s world... is it?”

“Realm, not world. But no, it isn’t. This is the beginning of a gate that will take us, I hope, to The Hanged Man. When I’m finished working on it. He looks expectant, and seems disappointed by Julian’s blank look. Julian tries to to better. 

“The, er, Hanged Man… sounds important! Is that another of your Arcana?”

Asra shakes his head, impatient. “No. It’s not mine, it doesn’t belong to me. But it’s my alignment. Everybody only gets one, magician or not and - I’ve told you all this before, Ilya! do you _never_ listen?” 

Julian feels resentment rising in his throat, with a taste like bile. “Oh, Well I’m _sorry,_ Asra, if I failed the pop quiz! I’m a little delirious from all the blood loss!” He tries to jerk his hand back out of the water - it’s almost numb and he’s going to lose a damn finger to frostbite at this rate, never mind the blood loss - but Asra holds him where he is, his grip like stone. _How the hell is he doing that?_ His hand and wrist ache from the cold.

Seeing he has his attention again, Asra gives a slight nod, which is all the approval Julian’s likely to get. “Ilya -- The Magician’s gate is “my gate”, or sort of. I can most easily pass through it to visit his realm, which is where I learn from him.”

“So?”

“So? _SO?_ THIS one, this isn’t a gate that I can use! It isn’t my gate! It’s _yours!_ ” 

“What do you mean, my gate? I’m not even a magician!”

“I don’t understand either. But everybody has a gate, magician or not. It’s just a matter of getting to it. And this one, if it is what I think, is one of the hardest to find! But for you - well, for your blood - it opened up like magic!”

Julian quirks a brow. “I guess I’m good for something after all, hm?” He doesn’t sound as if he means it, even to himself. Asra doesn’t notice. 

“Maybe. But for now… I just need your help to keep it open. This is all very new, and I’m not sure what it means yet. But it’s important. If it disappears...” Asra gives him a helpless, pleading look, and Julian’s heart aches to help him, to do whatever it takes to make that look go away. Oh it’s not fair, the way he affects him! Julian’s almost sure, too, that he knows what he’s doing. Not that that changes anything, really. 

Julian lowers his eyes, feeling weak, trapped. Without asking what he’s agreeing to, he says, “Okay.” 

When he looks up again, Asra’s eyes are shining like the way water will when it’s sparkling with reflected light. “Thank you, Ilya.” Asra looks both relieved and happy - and best of all, he looks that way because of something _Julian_ has done. For once.

He releases his grip on him, and Julian draws his dripping hand from the stupid fountain, shaking it with a grimace. But he returns Asra’s smile, (which is infectious, and impossible not to) and Asra pounces forward to embrace him - lingering just long enough for Julian to feel the full weight of him in his arms, his sleek softness there. Asra smells of Lilac and bergamot and the cool wind that blows across clear water, and Julian wants to hold him this way for a long, long time. When he presses a quick kiss to Julian’s cheek and pulls away, far too soon, Julian feels himself blushing. He clears his throat. 

“Anyway. What do you want me to do? I only have so much blood to give.” 

Asra shakes his head. “Not blood this time, I told you. I just need--”

But he isn’t allowed to finish. From a nearby tree, a raven screams a warning just before they’re interrupted, rudely, by a third and uninvited guest. This new person who comes crashing down the lawn, running and out of breath, long-beaked mask bobbing in one hand, apron flapping. 

“Doctor 069! Oh, realms of mercy, I’ve found you! Come quickly, they’re in a terrible temper!” 

Julian feels himself pale: he doesn’t have to ask who his colleague - Doctor 037, if he’s not mistaken - is referring to. He gathers himself up at once, wincing because his long limbs have nearly gone to sleep, folded up as he is - and with an apologetic backward glance at Asra, he hurries away. 

_“Ilya! Ilya, WAIT!”_

He has time, barely, to notice the distress on the magician’s face. He feels a pang - but Doctor 037 has him by one arm in a firm grip, is hurrying them both along, through the garden and past it. He hates to disappoint the magician, but the pain he feels as he abandons Asra is absolutely nothing compared to what his supervising physician will do to him if he’s late - which he already is, apparently. _Fuck._ If he hadn’t been so distracted by Asra… if his head hadn’t been so full of Lucio… 

Ah, well. It’s his own fault, after all. No one else’s. With a sigh, he surrenders himself to the too-familiar feeling of dread that settles in him as they reach the library door, and 037 fumbles with a complicated series of keys. He knows where they’re going, alright: straight into the bowels of hell.


	6. This is your last chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd by my friend Hearty Durian here on AO3 (Also hearty.durian on Tumblr): Thank you so very much for all your help and support! Mwah! 
> 
> OC Credits: 
> 
> Rosie / Doctor 037 Belongs to galactic_chiroptera here on AO3, (voidfishnesss on Tumblr)  
> Raul / Doctor 017 Belongs to Nesikiguigui on Tumblr  
> Amilia/ Unnamed servant belongs to Ceph (@snowyrusso on Twitter)

****SLIGHT** trigger warning for death and dead bodies (plague victims, y’know??)**

 

Even though it’s damp in the dungeons, and cold, Julian can feel himself sweating. He looks over both shoulders to make sure Valdemar’s attention is elsewhere, then reaches behind his head to unbuckle his mask. Valdemar’s had him on “delivery duty” practically since he stepped out of the elevator, meaning that he has to constantly cart bodies in from the morgue - a chore usually reserved for newer or less skilled members of the team. The fact of handling corpses isn’t even the bad part: as a doctor, Julian’s seen his fair share before now. 

No, the worst part by far is the awful, leaden _weight_ of them, the repetition of their journey. While Julian is hardly a weakling, his back can only take so much of the “bend-grab-lift-drop” routine. By the end of the day, he knows, it’ll be screaming in agony. Longingly, he thinks of his too-distant bed, and the far-away pleasures of collapsing there. 

( _Alone_ , he’s thinking of being in the comfort of his bed _alone._ He’s certainly not thinking about the heat and comfort of a body next to his own, remembering the sweet pressure of strong arms around him. He’s not considering in the slightest how it feels to wake in that comfort, even for a little while... of _course_ not!! He’s just _tired_ , as he has every right to be!) 

The air outside the mask is putrid but much cooler, and he sighs with relief, putting a hand on his low back as he stretches his aching spine. One more deep breath, then he fixes the mask back on, and unlatches the heavy lid of the beetle tank. 

Squatting before him, almost chest-height, the thick glass tank is enormous, the size of a child’s coffin. The scrabbling, clawing sounds that come through the air holes make his stomach roll.

Julian bends, grimacing behind the mask, and retrieves a soiled burlap sack from the bottom of his pushcart. It drips thickly onto the floor, leaving a puddle of gore, and he’s glad for his gloves. He lifts the tank’s lid, tips in the contents, and a mass of red plague beetles swarm excitedly, chittering. Julian snatches the bag back and latches the lid securely. He tells himself not to be sick. After all, that’s what they do, isn’t it? What they’re for? Circle of life, all that.

Still, something about the beetle box makes Julian’s skin crawl. He knows it’s horribly unscientific of him, but the churning mass of plated bodies, disturbs him in some deep way, like a half-remembered nightmare. In morbid fascination, half-unwilling, he looks into the box again - and shudders at their roiling motion, like waves reaching for land. Waves with teeth. Mindless unstoppable hunger.

Sighing, he takes up the tongs he’ll use to retrieve the clean white bones left behind after the beetles have finished their meal, in order to add them to the growing bone pile nearby.

He hears a faint dry skittering, and looks down to see that one of the more enterprising beetles has escaped. It’s making its way busily down toward the floor, as if it had an appointment to keep; he wonders where it could be going in such a hurry. Before it can get there he catches the beetle in one gloved hand, tweezing it between his long fingers. The tiny monster struggles mightily, little legs furiously kicking the air, creepy body squirming this way and that - but he holds it fast. 

Although it’s not logical, Julian feels his own heart suddenly beating too fast, racing as if he held something more dangerous than a simple beetle - a poisonous viper maybe - or, god forbid, a _spider_. Ridiculous: he’s a grown man! He swallows his fear and reaches to unlatch the lid with fingers that hardly tremble at all.

...And _shrieks,_ the sound high-pitched and decidedly unmanly, as a white and skeletal hand slowly climbs his shoulder, finger-bones rattling. At the same time, he jumps about a foot in the air, every muscle in his body tensing at once. 

_“Hey, Dr. Jules,”_ a raspy voice intones, _“Need a haaaand?”_

In the excitement, he drops both tongs and beetle into the bottom of the delivery cart, and into a quagmire of unmentionable substances. 

_Leeches and damnation!_ Pretending his heart isn’t still beating out of his chest, Julian swats the skeleton arm aside… and levels what he hopes is an intimidating glare on its wielder, a giggling fellow physician at least a foot shorter than he is, face hidden behind the familiar beaked mask. But even with the mask in place, he knows her: he’d know those laughing blue eyes anywhere. She looks a good deal more cheerful now than she did earlier, when she’d been sent to fetch him from the gardens. 

_”037!”_ he snaps, still nervy from his scare. Then, lowering his voice so he won’t be overheard violating protocol: “Rosie!” Scanning the room first, he whisper-shouts, _”You’re going to get me in SO much trouble!”_ .

The troublemaker presses a gloved hand to her chest, eyes widening in mock alarm “Oh noo….! Not Doctor 069, the most innocent man in the dungeon!” And 037 doubles over in a fresh wave of laughter, shaking.

_”Shhh, shut up!”_ he hisses, but he too is struggling not to laugh. Quickly he scans the room, but Valdemar appears to be engaged in something that is occupying all of their attention, with their taut back to Julian and Rosie for the moment. 

“Ooh.. or what? Is the scary pirate man gonna make he walk the plank?” With just the tone of her voice, can tell how pleased she is with herself for coming up with that one. 

“The plank walking thing is a myth,” he whispers back. “Real pirates just kill you and toss overboard. Ughk… gahhhh!” he demonstrates, stabbing himself in the stomach with an invisible sword, and then slumping over as he dies.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Gonna stab me, then?” 

He gasps theatrically, covering the lower half of his mask with one hand. “What! Stab you? Me? I am man of _honor_ , madam! I’m gonna challenge you… to a *duel*! En garde!” 

In a flash he reaches into the bone pile, fishing one out that’s long and straight, then assumes a dramatic stance. Feet apart, knees slightly bent, he thrusts his weapon at her: “Prepare to meet the end you deserve, scoundrel!” He challenges, careful to keep his voice low - and his sword hidden by the width of the beetle tank, “ At the end of my blade!” 

His opponent is quick on her feet though - blocking his thrust, she returns a few good jabs of her own, forcing Julian to retreat backward as he gives ground, all the while keeping an eye on Valdemar’s back. However, his height gives him an unfair advantage he’s not above taking, and soon enough he spots an opening in her defense. He swoops in for the kill-- 

And slips in the slick red puddle left there earlier. His feet go out from under him, seeking an adventure of their own (goodbye, feet!), while Doctor 069 himself falls gracefully backwards into the empty cart… which tips harmlessly onto its side, leaking claret red onto the stone, the momentum helping to propel Julian directly into the into the much-less-empty beetle tank. The tank, being the final recipient of this accumulated energy, jitters on it’s stand, wobbles… and hits the floor with an impressive crash. What follows, then, is a truly magnificent expression of chaos: glass shards and beetles explode in all directions. The bone pile, balanced so tidily next to the tank, clatters to the stone floor with a sound like muffled applause. (Julian decides against taking a bow.) 

The silence that follows is deafening.

 

Without a word, 037 wisely vanishes, not even stopping long enough to replace the filched skeleton arm. Julian is alone, sprawled on the floor amid a chaos of glass and beetle and bone. Alone, that is, except for Quastor Valdemar, who has arrived so quickly and silently that they’re looming over Julian before he can even collect himself enough to get up.

_Perfect_.

Julian lurches to his feet, nearly tumbling back down in his haste. He brushes glass fragments from his hair and clothes - they sound like a light rain as they hit the hard floor. He undoes his mask and yanks it off, respectfully. “Quaestor! I, ah, I can explain!” 

**_“What’s THere To *ExPLain*, Doctor 069? Your CiRcumSTancEs Are QUite ApPAreNT. But, PleAse. Do Not Let Me StOP You. EnlighTEn Us. ExPlaiN.”_ **

Valdemar laces their hands behind their back, looking at him expectantly. Above the surgical mask their ruby-red eyes gleam very bright. The bandage-wrapped tips of their horn-shaped appendages look very sharp. 

“Ah,” says Julian, “Ha. Yes. That is. You see…” then, as if his brain has finally kicked in, he manages: “You see, Quaestor, I was merely engaged in, ah, researching the effects of the plague-beetles, with the help--” he catches himself just in time, eyes sliding away from where Rosie stands at her own workstation, where she is very deliberately ignoring this conversation. “--the help of these, er, specimens,” he gestures helpfully, with the femur he’s still holding, “When I tripped, and uh...well. Dreadfully sorry,” he finishes, his voice losing a little of its pizazz.” 

Valdemar does not look impressed. 

**_““DoCTor 069,” they say, each word as sharp as a scalpel's edge, “You Are AlreADy The MoSt AccideNT-proNe MembER Of THis Team By Far, But ReceNTly You Have BecoME FranKly A Liability. It Is My UNderstaNDing That You NOw Are Keping LongER Hours In The SeRVice Of OuR CouNT Lucio, Is ThiS CorreCT?”_ **

“Ah. Yes, Quaestor.” He folds his hands behind his back. 

Valdemar nods curtly. Their gaze on Julian is level and unchanging, without any sympathy at all. **_“VEry Well. As ThiS Additional EngagemeNT Is Obviously Causing A STrain On Your Already LimitED Mental Faculties, You Are RelievED Of Floor Duty For The Time BEing.”_ **

Julian feels a wave of panic; his nausea returns. If he’s lost his privileges here, he won’t be of any use, none at all! He’ll be helpless, tied to Lucio’s side as he watches the plague advance, but otherwise unable to act, unable to help, unable to stop what’s happening. _”No!_ he yelps, before he can stop himself. _“Quaestor Please--!”_

Valdemar holds up a hand, closing their eyes in that maddening way they have, and Julian’s pleas grind to a halt. “UnfORtunately, It Is Not Within My PowER And Would Not Be To My AdvaNTage,To DismiSs You From The Medical TeaM. There Is At PrESent a Shocking Shortage Of DoCTors, And I NeEd All The Bodies-- Ahem. All The *Medical Professionals* Available.” 

Julian relaxes. Sort of. “Y-yes, Quaestor,” he says, because it seems like the polite thing. 

**_“HoWEver. We Can No LonGer Tolerate Your CaRElessness. TherefoRe, During The RemaiNDer Of This QuarteR You Will Be AssiGNed To Maintenance, Supply And Cleanup. If You Are AbLe To CompleTE Your Daily TasKs - WithouT BreaKing, DroppiNG, Or Otherwise Ruining Any ImportaNT Equipment, May I ADd - Then You May ResuME Your Own Research. After HouRs.”_ **

“I--I understand. Thank you, Quaestor,” he says, humbly. He doesn’t have to try too hard to be humble - Quaestor Valdemar is legitimately frightening. 

**_“If You ARe Able To RetuRN To Good STanding By The End Of The QuartER, I Will ConsidER Reinstating You In Your PrEVious Position.”_ **

Julian blinks, surprised. “Yes, Quaestor. Er… thank you.” He says, more sincerely. 

“Don’t ThaNk Me. It Wastes TimE, And I Am Not DoiNG You A FavOR. Frankly I Doubt Your Ability To ReaCH This Goal. AddiTionally--” 

“Yes?”

**_“You Will Be SupervisED DurinG Your ProbationARy Period, To EnSure That YouR FutuRe PropeRTy Damage Is LimiTed As Much As PossiBLe.”_ **

Julian groans inwardly. Then outwardly. “Supervised? Is that really necessary?” Valdemar levels a hard look at him, and he takes a moment to silently curse his impulsive mouth. 

**_“Necessary, 069? Let Us ReView. Did YoU, Or Did You NoT OvertuRN An Entire ShipmeNT Of Glass BottleS, NecessiTaTing Their Re-order and Cleanup, ForciNG Us To Use The Far InferioR CeramiCS For The Remainder Of Last QuartER.”_ **

“Well yes, but--” 

**_“And Did YoU Or Did You NoT ContaminaTE MultiPle Samples With A Spill Of WhaT I Believe You TermED “Hair Of The DoG” PRior To ThaT?”_ **

“That was an accident!”

**_“Immaterial. NexT Question: Who AmoNG Us Was ResPonsible For The Flock Of CorviDS That AppeareD Without Reason And CertainlY Without InviTation, To RUin An EnTire Day’s Worth Of ReseaRch And DepriVe SeverAL Of Your ColleagueS Of Their LuncheS, AloNG With Any Shiny OrnameNTs And, I UnderstanD, Some Of Their HaiR?”_ **

“I apologized for that! Listen, have you ever tried to reason with a raven?? It’s like talking to a--” Valdemar holds up a hand for silence. 

**_“Lastly. Where WEre You DuriNG The FiRe That Took PlacE Last ThuRSday, ConsumiNG Half Our LibrARy And The EnTirety Of 043’s ImportaNT Work On The PaRT Of Straw BedDing In Carrying PeStilencE?”_ **

“I was, uh… in the room where the fire was.”

**_“Correct. And WhaT Were YoU DoiNG?”_ **

Julian hangs his head. “Reading messages written in invisible ink.” 

Valdemar only stares, waiting for the rest. 

“With, um. A candle.” 

Another stare. Julian’s voice comes out in a creak: “A candle that started a fire.” 

Valdemar nods. **_“YoU Will Be SupervisED.”_ **

Julian nods, miserably. “Yes, Quaestor.”

**_“Your SupervisOR Will Be ResponsiblE For DeterminiNG Your FiTness For ReinstatemeNT, So I Advise YoU To Proceed CaRefully. While I CannoT Dismiss YoU At The PreseNT Time, I Can And Will KeeP YoU On On MaintenancE And Supply IndefiniTely. ThiS Is YoUr LasT Chance, 069. Do YoU UnderstaND Me?”_ **

Julian’s gaze drops. “Yes, Quaestor.” 

**_“Do YoU HavE Any QuestioNs?”_ **

“Just one, Quaestor.” He lifts his head. “Who will be my supervising physician?”

Valdemar pauses for a moment, then turns their head to scan the room: some of Julian’s colleagues flinch visibly as Valdemar’s eyes pass over them. Clearly, they hadn’t planned this far ahead, and Julian is momentarily caught off guard by the idea that Valdemar is _improvising_. He doesn’t have long to ponder the novelty of it, though. As Valdemar considers the sea of doctors, their attention seems to snag on one in particular: a severe-looking man who’s working alone, a little apart from the others, head bent low over whatever he’s doing. Julian can see that he holds a glass beaker of amethyst-colored liquid in one hand and a scalpel in the other, but whatever he’s doing with that troubling combination is hidden from view. Perhaps more intriguing is the fact that he, alone among his fellows gives the appearance of being uninterested in the little drama currently playing out between Julian and Valdemar. 

**_“017!”_ ** Valdemar calls out, raising their sharp voice above the noises of the room. ** _“Dr. 017! Step FoRward. I Have a Task For yoU.”_ **

The doctor identified as 017 looks up at once, then sets their tools carefully aside. Irritation is obvious in every line of their body as the figure moves toward them with quick strides, efficiently avoiding both colleagues and less mobile obstacles. Julian feels an unnamed dread rolling in his gut… but his existential crisis is interrupted by a light touch on his arm. 

As tightly wound as he is, Julian gasps audibly, then looks around in embarrassment. “Um. Yes?”

He’s addressing a slender young girl in the uniform of the palace servants, who looks almost desperately ill at ease in the confines of the dungeon - he recognizes her, he thinks. She serves in Lucio’s wing, maybe? “Doctor Devorark, Count Lucio isn’t well. Please, come quickly.” 

_Fuck_. It’s rare to receive a summons like this, but not entirely unheard of. He looks to Valdemar for permission, everything else fading to unimportance. “Quaestor?” 

Valdemar’s eyes narrow dangerously… a bad sign. **_“Go,”_ ** they bite off, clearly unwilling to be the one who defies an order given by - or for - Count Lucio. Julian sags with relief. **_“ComE Early tomorrow,”_ ** they say flatly. Then, to the confused 017, **_“You too. 069 YoU Are DisMissed.”_ **

There’s a round of bewildered questioning behind him, but Julian doesn’t stay to listen to it. Shrugging out of his apron and mask as quickly as possible, he drops them carelessly in the changing area. Together with the serving-girl, Julian hurries toward the groaning elevator, to be carried back into the world above.


End file.
